When Captain Joe returned from an inspection of the sloop’s
injuries,—strange to say, they were very slight compared to the force
of the explosion,—Mrs. Leroy was still talking to Sanford, suggesting
comforts for the men, and planning for mosquito nettings to be placed
over their cots. The maid, a severe-looking woman in black, who had
never relaxed her grasp of the dressing-case, had taken a seat on an
empty nail-keg which somebody had brought in, and which she had
carefully dusted with her handkerchief before occupying. It was
evident from her manner that there was absolutely nothing she could do
for anybody.
Captain Joe looked at the party for a moment, noted Mrs. Leroy’s
traveling costume of blue foulard and dainty bonnet, ran his eye over
the maid, glanced at the major, in an alpaca coat, with white
waistcoat and necktie and gray slouch hat, and said in his calm,
forceful, yet gentle way to Mrs. Leroy, “It was very nice of ye to
come an’ bring yer friend,” pointing to the maid, “an’ any o’ Mr.
Sanford’s folks is allers welcome at any time; but we be a rough lot,
an’ the men’s rough, and ye kin see for yerself we ain’t fixed up fur
company. They’ll be all right in a week or so. Ef ye don’t mind now,
ma’am, I’m goin’ to shet them shetters to keep the sun out o’ their
eyes an’ git th’ men quiet,—some on ’em ain’t slep’ any too much. The
tug’ll be here to take ye all over to Medford whenever ye’re ready;
she’s been to th’ Ledge fur th’ men. Mr. Sanford said ye’d be goin’
over soon.” He glanced about the room as he spoke, until his eye
rested on Sanford. “Ye’re goin’ ’long, didn’t I hear ye say, sir?”
Then addressing Slocomb, whose title he tried to remember, “We’ve done
th’ best we could, colonel. It ain’t like what ye’re accustomed to,
mebbe,—kind’er ragged place,—but we got th’ men handy here where we
kin take care on ’em, an’ still look after th’ work, an’ we ain’t got
no time to lose this season; it’s been back’ard, blowin’ a gale half
the time. There’s the tug whistle now, ma’am,” turning again to Mrs.
Leroy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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